She was tired of dabbing at her hands and face with damp napkins. She was tired of wearing the same clothes for a week. She was tired of hair which seemed dank and stringy by now.
And then she was almost on her feet again, ready to turn about sharply; she wasn't going to see him; she wouldn't look at him.
But it was only Gillbret. She sank down again. "Hello, Uncle Oil."
Gillbret sat down opposite her. For a moment his thin face seemed anxious and then it started wrinkling into a smile. "I think a week of this ship is very unamusing too. I was hoping you could cheer me up."
But she said, "Now, Uncle Oil, don't start using psychology on me. If you think you're going to cajole me into feeling a responsibility for you, you're wrong. I'm much more likely to hit you."
"If it will make you feel better-"
"I warn you again. If you hold out your arm for me to hit, I'll do it, and if you say 'Does that make you feel better?' I'll do it again."
"In any case, it's obvious you've quarreled with Biron. What about?"
"I don't see why there's any necessity for discussion. Just leave me alone." Then, after a pause, "He thinks Father did what the Autarch said he did. I hate him for that."
"Your father?"
"No! That stupid, childish, sanctimonious fool!"
"Presumably Biron. Good. You hate him. You couldn't put a knife edge between the kind of hate that has you sitting here like this and something that would seem to my own bachelor mind to be a rather ridiculous excess of love."
"Uncle oil," she said, "could he really have done it?"
"Biron? Done what?"
"No! Father. Could Father have done it? Could he have informed against the Rancher?"
Gillbret looked thoughtful and very sober. "I don't know." He looked at her out of the corner of his eyes. "You know, he did give Biron up to the Tyranni."
"Because he knew it was a trap," she said vehemently. "And it was. That horrible Autarch meant it as such. He said so. The Tyranni knew who Biron was and sent him to Father on purpose. Father did the only thing he could do. That should be obvious to anybody."
"Even if we accept that"-and again that sideways look -"he did try to argue you into a rather unamusing kind of marriage. If Hinrik could bring himself to do that-"
She interrupted. "He had no way out there, either."
"My dear, if you're going to excuse every act of subservience to the Tyranni as something he had to do, why, then, how do you know he didn't have to hint something about the Rancher to the Tyranni?"
"Because I'm sure he wouldn't. You don't know Father the way I do. He hates the Tyranni. He does. I know it. He wouldn't go out of his way to help them. I admit that he's afraid of them and doesn't dare oppose them openly, but if he could avoid it somehow, he would never help them.",
"How do you know he could avoid it?"
But she shook her head violently, so that her hair tumbled about and hid her eyes. It hid the tears a bit too.
Gillbret watched a moment, then spread his hands helplessly and left.
The trailer was joined to the Remorseless by a waspwaist corridor attached to the emergency air lock in the rear of the ship. It was several dozen times larger than the Tyranni vessel in capacity, almost humorously outsized.
The Autarch joined Biron in a last inspection. He said, "Do you find anything lacking?"
Biron said, "No. I think we'll be quite comfortable."
"Good. And by the way, Rizzett tells me the Lady Artemisia is not well, or at least that she looks unwell. If she requires medical attention, it might be wise to send her to my ship."
"She is quite well," said Biron curtly.
"If you say so. Would you be ready to leave in twelve hours?"
"In two hours, if you wish."
Biron passed through the connecting corridor (he had to stoop a little) into the Remorseless proper.
He said with a careful evenness of tone, "You've got a private suite back there, Artemisia. I won't bother you. I'll stay here most of the time."
And she replied coldly, "You don't bother me, Rancher. It doesn't matter to me where you are."
And then the ships blasted off, and after a single Jump they found themselves at the edge of the Nebula. They waited for a few hours while the final calculations were made on Jonti's ship. Inside the Nebula it would be almost blind navigation.
Biron stared glumly at the visiplate. There was nothing there! One entire half of the celestial sphere was taken up with blackness, unrelieved by a spark of light. For the first time, Biron realized how warm and friendly the stars were, how they filled space.
"It's like dropping through a hole in space," he muttered to Gillbret.
And then they Jumped again, into the Nebula.
Almost simultaneously Simok Aratap, Commissioner of the Great Khan, at the head of ten armed cruisers, listened to his navigator and said, "That doesn't matter. Follow them anyway."
And not one light-year from the point at which the Remorseless entered the Nebula, ten Tyranni vessels did likewise.
Sixteen: Hounds!
Simok Aratap was a little uncomfortable in his uniform. Tyrannian uniforms were made of moderately coarse materials and fit only indifferently well. It was not soldier-like to complain of such inconveniences. In fact, it was part of the Tyrannian military tradition that a little discomfort on the part of the soldier was good for discipline.
But still Aratap could bring himself to rebel against that tradition to the extent of saying, ruefully, "The tight collar irritates my neck."
Major Andros, whose collar was as tight, and who had been seen in no other than military dress in the memory of man, said, "When alone, it would be quite within regulations to open it. Before any of the officers or men, any deviation from regulation dress would be disturbing influence."
Aratap sniffed. It was the second change induced by the quasi-military nature of the expedition. In addition to being forced into uniform, he had to listen to an increasingly self-assertive military aide. That had begun even before they left Rhodia.
Andros had put it to him baldly.
He had said, "Commissioner, we will need ten ships."
Aratap had looked up, definitely annoyed. At the moment he was getting ready to follow the young Widemos in a single vessel. He laid aside the capsules in which he was preparing his report for the Khan's Colonial Bureau, to be forwarded in the unhappy case that he did not return from the expedition.
"Ten ships, Major?"
"Yes, sir. Less will not do."
"Why not?"
"I intend to maintain a reasonable security. The young man is going somewhere. You say there is a well-developed conspiracy in existence. Presumably, the two fit together."
"And therefore?"
"And therefore we must be prepared for a possibly well-developed conspiracy. One that might be able to handle a single ship."
"Or ten. Or a hundred. Where does security cease?"
"One must make a decision. In cases of military action, it is my responsibility. I suggest ten."
Aratap's contact lenses gleamed unnaturally in the wall light as he raised his eyebrows. The military carried weight. Theoretically, in times of peace, the civilian made the decisions, but here again, military tradition was a difficult thing to set aside.
He said cautiously, "I will consider the matter."
"Thank you. If you do not choose to accept my recommendations, and my suggestions have only been advanced as such, I assure you"-the major's heels clicked sharply, but the ceremonial deference was rather empty, and Aratap knew it-"that would be your privilege. You would leave me, however, no choice but to resign my commission."